blasted summit, and then started down with the two animals, making fresh prints away from the ridge.
In the Bo Hai Gulf the Sea Wolf II-class USS
Within seconds of the decode, Robert Brentwood, from the raised podium of the control room’s attack center, ordered, “Man battle stations missile!” and the alarm mounded, water immediately shut off from all showers so that men in them could hear the call. The sudden absence of water meant that at least one man — a steward — had to quickly vacate the shower, his head and shoulders covered in sticky shampoo.
Robert Brentwood’s hands gripped the brass railing that guarded the bigger search and smaller attack periscope housings. “Set condition one SQ.”
This was the highest alert.
“Set condition one SQ,” confirmed Rolston, the officer of the deck. No sooner had the OOD said it than the various departments throughout the sub were punching in “ready” status.
“Condition one SQ all set,” Rolston confirmed.
“Very well,” Brentwood answered. “Mutual trim.”
“Mutual trim now, sir.”
“Very well. Prepare to spin. Stand by to flood forward tubes one and two, aft tubes five and six.” There was a faint sound of rushing water as the tubes were flooded. Tubes one and two forward and five and six aft were already housing 3,500-pound, 28-mile-range Mark 48 torpedoes with contact fuses.
It was a precautionary measure should the sound of the USS
“Missile status report?” Brentwood asked.
“Spin-up complete, sir.”
“Very well. Prepare for ripple fire.”
“Yes, sir. Prepare for ripple fire.”
Throughout the
The weapons officer waited. His assistant, with wire trailing from headphones, moved, head bent in priestly concentration, up and down “Blood Alley,” the rigged-for-red corridor made up of banks of computers, as he constantly monitored the missiles’, in this case the cruise missiles’, status.
“Missiles ready,” the weapons officer reported after having checked each one’s housing to make sure it was ready to pass through its prelaunch modes.
“Flood Tomahawk tubes.”
“Flood Tomahawk tubes.”
“Tubes flooding, sir.” There was a few seconds’ delay as the water poured into the vertical housing, filling the space between the elastomeric shock-absorber liners and the Tomahawk missiles themselves. Brentwood inserted his key to complete the firing circuitry, giving his independent authority to launch.
“Stand by for ripple fire,” Brentwood said.
“Stand by for ripple fire,” the weapons officer repeated.
“Fire one,” Brentwood ordered.
“Fire one.”
“Fire two.”
“Fire two.”
“Fire three.”
“Fire three.”
“Fire four.”
“Fire four. All fired.”
The Tomahawks rose from their housings, breaking the water-missile interface protective membrane, and within seconds were through the water into the air, their fiery tails first giving off smoke and looking as if they were skidding sideways for a time, then rising higher and higher before leveling out and going into their TERCOM — terrain contouring mode — in which each missile would sweep in over die Chinese coast, its television eye recording the topography, matching it with that of the target fed into the computer before launch. The missile would not come down until the exact configuration seen by its TV eye matched the preprogrammed picture of the target — like a hand moving toward its mirror image. Having made the matchup it would “down turn” to complete its homing lock- on.
“Where the hell they going?” an electrician’s mate, Holmes, asked.
“China, man.”
“Yeah but whereabouts?”
“Dunno, man. Skipper got the orders to press the button. He pressed it. Wherever they’re gonna land it’s
“And now,” Holmes said, “every mother within a hundred miles of us knows where we are.”
“Hey, man, that’s why we’re half missile launcher and half HUK.” He meant Hunter-Killer. “They want to come for us we can play. Why you think the old man loaded those four Mark 48s in the tubes? He’s ready.”
“Hope so,” Holmes said.
“Know so,” the mate said.
The Chinese sub
But the gunboat flotilla wasn’t at all interested. It had already been dispersed up and down the coast, concentrating particularly along the 120-mile strip between Xiamen and Putan opposite Taiwan, from where Admiral Kuang’s invasion had established a beachhead near Xiamen.
With no interest shown by the Brown Wave Navy, the Chinese sub skipper decided to resume his patrol in the direction of the American Sea Wolf alone. If it missed the Sea Wolf and could no longer hear its water pump, then there was still a chance to take a bite out of the big U.S. carrier group itself. The
At Honggor, things were falling apart. The Americans were not overwhelmed by the far more numerous Chinese but were caught in a draw, and a draw wasn’t good enough, for ultimately the Chinese sea of armor and the troop and materiel reinforcements being rushed by rail from Shenyang’s northern armies in Manchuria must turn the tide against the U.S. forces.
This day the second in command to Freeman, General Leigh, commander to the Orgon Tal-Honggor front, decided that the only thing to do, especially given the snags that Freeman’s SAS/D troop were running up against, was to call in the Marine Expeditionary Force. It was time to turn the feint into a reality at Beidaihe’s Middle Beach. He was on the radio asking Freeman for permission to call in the marines. “Request Golf Force.”
“Permission granted,” Freeman said. “Disembarkation at fourteen hundred hours. Repeat, fourteen hundred hours.” At the time, no one thought to question why Freeman was so emphatic about 1400 hours. In any case, on hearing “permission granted,” the 48,000-strong Marine Expeditionary Force was instructed to execute “Golf Force,” to hit the Chinese east flank at Beidaihe. And Robert Brentwood knew he would have to blow the hidden beach obstacles.
As the USS
